


Skin Like Silk

by isnt_it_pretty



Series: Of Broken Hearts and Kindred Spirits [8]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anxiety, Blood, Chronic Pain, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Hey look this is actually beta read, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Injuries, Sad Sylvain, Self-Worth Issues, Slice of Life, Supportive Felix, Trans Caspar von Bergliez, What's new in my works? Not that, in the past though, referenced trans male character, that's a miracle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 15:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21580135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isnt_it_pretty/pseuds/isnt_it_pretty
Summary: After nine month of dating, and being friends for much longer, Sylvain and Felix decide it's time for the next step in their relationship.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Of Broken Hearts and Kindred Spirits [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1470533
Comments: 13
Kudos: 235





	Skin Like Silk

**Author's Note:**

> Hey special thanks to Yevie on Ao3 / yevievt on Twitter / Evie on the discord for betaing this hot mess. I did not have the energy to do it, so they're the only reason this is being posted now instead of next week.
> 
> I've gotta admit, this one is kinda filler. The next part is the one I'm super excited for, so I hope you'll wait around for that one to get posted. For now, I hope you enjoy this!

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Felix snaps as he passes a box to Dimitri,  _ ‘Sylvain Clothes’  _ scrawled across the top in a familiar, messy hand writing. “You’ll fuck up your shoulder again, and then I’ll have to hear you complain about it for the next week.”

Sylvain pouts as he straightens, leaving the box of Felix’s books where it is. It's a fair enough request, considering how heavy the box probably is, but it irritates him anyway. 

The entire time they’ve been moving, he’s been told not to touch anything. He knows it’s because his shoulder was so inflamed last week that he couldn’t even move, but it bothers him nonetheless. He isn’t a child, he’s not  _ fragile _ or  _ breakable _ .

“Well then what  _ can _ I carry?”

“Nothing,” his partner replies, walking over to snatch the box. He lifts it with the ease of somebody who strength trains for  _ fun. _ “The only reason we invited your shitty friends to help is to make sure you  _ don’t _ have to carry anything heavy.”

“ _ Our _ shitty friends,” Sylvain corrects with a roll of his eyes. 

It isn’t fair, he knows it isn’t. Felix has been stressed too. Exams just finished, and they’re still waiting on their final grades. Not to mention that he has yet to tell his father that he’s moving, let alone in with Sylvain (of course, he also hasn’t told his father he’s gay, but Sylvain isn’t about to hold that one against him).

It’s hot outside, the early June sun beating down on them as they work. Thankfully, neither Felix nor Sylvain have much in the way of belongings. Felix left most of his ‘household’ items with Ingrid and Dimitri, saying he could easily buy more. Instead, all he packed were boxes upon boxes of books, and what few clothes and other items he bothered to bring with him from his father’s house. Sylvain, having lived in the dorms for the previous three years, doesn’t own much either. Just clothes, and far too many textbooks to be comfortable. Not to mention his box of miscellaneous cords and chargers. Never know when somebody may need a charger for a Nokia flip phone,  _ Dimitri. _

The hardest part is moving things like Felix’s bed, desk, and the rest of the items from his bedroom. Carrying them up five floors, even with the use of an elevator (which unfortunately, did not fit the mattress) just isn’t something Sylvain can do, even on the best of days. 

Sighing, Sylvain squints up at their new apartment building. 

Since Caspar decided to move in with Lindhardt, Sylvain found himself without a roommate. A situation Felix is more than happy to take advantage of, swearing he’ll rip his own hair out if he had to room with Dimitri and Ingrid for another year. 

It’d taken them weeks to find an apartment, considering how picky they could both be. It had to be within walking distance of the school, but with a parking spot for Felix’s car. An elevator, for days when they were too tired to climb stairs, and not be the size of a fucking shoebox. Ideally it would have enough natural light to keep Sylvain from slipping into an easily avoidable episode, and light fixtures that wouldn’t trigger migraines in Felix. 

At least price wouldn’t be an issue, with both their parents offering to cover rent. Not that Sylvain’s would ever let him forget it, of course. Everything they ever did for him was just another opportunity to dangle it over his head.

Finally, they’d come across an apartment that fit pretty much everything. It's smaller than they’d like, but not overly so. Sylvain complained about the bathroom, but conceded when Felix pointed out that utilities were included, meaning he could easily take the longest showers known to man without there being an issue. The only issue however, is that the apartment only has one bedroom. It would be much easier to explain their relationship as roommates, should the need ever arise, if there were two beds. Much harder when it’s blatantly obvious they’re sharing. 

Eventually they overlooked it. It isn’t like they would ever invite their parents over, and Sylvain’s hadn't come for any kind of visit in the three years he’d been away.

“Come on,” Felix tells him. “You can start unpacking.”

He follows his partner through the building, to one of the elevators. It opens to reveal a tired looking Ingrid, who shoots them both a smile, before exiting.

They live on the fifth floor, giving them a decent enough view of the area around them.

Felix leads him to a brown wooden door, their apartment number, 512, embossed in gold lettering on the surface. Sylvain opens it, since his partner’s hands are carrying the books.

The apartment is full of boxes, and newly purchased furniture. Their couch had been delivered earlier in the day, but had yet to be freed from its plastic prison. Bags of kitchen items adorn the fake granite counter tops, ready to be opened and put away. Maybe washed first if either of them had the energy after a day of moving.

Boxes of four bar stools, unopened and ready to put together, lean against the island. Mercedes picked them out, claiming the brown accents would match their hardwood floor. 

“Where’s the rug?” Sylvain asks as he watches Felix drop the box of books with a thud. He cringes at the sound.

“I think it’s still in Ingrid’s car? But I’m pretty sure I saw Ashe and Dorothea getting ready to carry it up.” He wipes dust on his unfairly tight jeans. He reaches up to adjust the ponytail, holding back his long hair. “Why don’t you see if Caspar is done, and start putting clothes away?”

Sylvain tries not to roll his eyes, knowing that Felix is just giving him something to do to keep him out of trouble. It isn’t his fault that his partner seemed intent on fitting every item in as few boxes as possible.

He picks his way across their mostly empty living space, the open floor plan lets light from the large windows filter into the room. A dark brown door, similar to the one leading into their apartment, is open, letting him easily walk into the bedroom.

The room is easily large enough for their few scant belongings, including the ungodly sized bed Sylvain not so secretly loves. There’s one window, on the wall opposite the door. To his right is another door, leading to the single washroom. The other side of the same wall held the door to the closet. The king sized bed Caspar built put together is between the two, with the pieces of the end tables were resting against the side.

Across from the bed, and a little towards where Sylvain is standing, is the dresser. Boxes of clothes, mostly his, pile around it. 

Caspar is sitting on the floor, surrounded by what looks to be Felix’s desk. He’s holding up a piece, appraising it, before picking up another one. Dimitri is leaning against the wall next to him, having apparently deposited the box Felix passed to him earlier.

“Hey Sylvain,” Caspar says, not looking up from where he’s sitting. Three years of living together taught them both how to identify the other. As it is, Sylvain can pick out the sound of his former roommates footsteps without looking. 

“Hey,” he replies, leaning against the dresser. He knows sorting the clothes will be a bitch. He may have gotten rid of some as he packed, but that doesn’t mean he paired down by a substantial amount. Trying to fit both his and Felix’s wardrobe into the drawers will be interesting. Not to mention Felix refuses to hang anything up that he can easily toss into a drawer, so he’ll have to go through them to find what should be hung up. 

“Well, I should get back to it,” Dimitri tells them, pushing himself off the wall to return to carting the few remaining boxes up to the apartment. 

Caspar waits for Dimitri to leave, before putting down the piece he’s holding, and looking up at him. “You’re going to be okay, right?”

It’s a fair question. Sylvain’s been doing better, the last year. Has gone months since the last time he hurt himself, even longer since he last binge drank. 

Mercedes thinks it's probably Felix’s influence, or at least his nagging about practicing basic self care. Can’t skip meals for three days and go a week without showering when he has a boyfriend who will yell at him if he tries it. The fact that he’s stopped trying to hide his sexuality behind mindless flirting goes without saying.

But, no matter how much better Sylvain is doing, he still has his moments. Still struggles to get up, to eat. He knows Caspar is worried about what will happen if he and Felix break up, how far back it could push him. He’d be lying if he said he had never thought of it himself.

He shrugs anyways, doing what he’s always done best. Deflecting. “Are  _ you _ ?”

Caspar laughs, and lets him change the course of the conversation. Sylvain knows he is  _ letting _ him, his friend has known him too long to easily fall for that.

“Probably,” he answers. “Nervous about top surgery, but Linhardt will be there to help patch me up after. Ashe said he’d be down to crash at our place as well, in case Linhardt has a bad enough day that he can’t help with bandages.”

Sylvain nods. It’s a conversation they’d had several months back, when Caspar first received his surgery date. Originally it was going to be him to help him through recovery, but plans changed when Linhardt casually said it would just be easier if they lived together, before promptly falling asleep. 

“Well let me know if you end up needing any help,” he says, even though he knows it won’t be needed. Everybody is rallying behind Caspar, it’s great to see.

“Will do man,” Caspar replies, reaching for a desk leg. They fall into a comfortable silence, Caspar finishes putting the desk together, somehow, as Sylvain unpacks boxes. It's about an hour later, and two end tables put together, that they’re interrupted by the sound of Felix and Ingrid bickering over pizza, which isn’t all that surprising.

The debate on whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza has been one to haunt their friendship since the very start. Ingrid being for, and Felix against. The latter venomently refusing to allow such ‘sacrilege’ into his home, especially after having to do so for the last year. It takes twenty minutes before they’re finally settled enough to order the fucking food.

* * *

_ Thwack _

_ Smash _

“Fuck!”

Felix, part way through towel drying his hair, stops. “Sylvain?” he calls, somewhat apprehensively. He’s in the bedroom, mostly unpacked after the few days they’ve lived there, while Sylvain is in the kitchen. 

There’s no response to his call.

Quickly, Felix throws on the closest shirt, one of Sylvain’s, and walks out into their kitchen.

The apartment is looking really good. Their couch has been positioned overtop of a red, fluffy rug, with a coffee table already full of Sylvain’s schoolwork. The TV they rarely use is set up as well, with the PS4 Sylvain loves when he has free time.

Their kitchen is stocked with dishes and cutlery, fridge full of easy to make food so that they’ll both actually eat something.

Sylvain is nowhere in sight.

“Sylv?” he asks, trying not to panic, because he heard a crash and now his partner isn’t here and-

“Here,” Sylvain says, voice quiet. 

Felix follows it. Hidden behind the island, Sylvain is sitting on the floor. He’s wearing a pair of jeans that Felix knows makes his ass look fantastic, and his favourite Charmander t-shirt. Really, he owns too many articles of clothing with that Pokemon on it. His back is resting against the grey counters, a dishcloth held to his head.

Around him are shards of glass.

“What happened?” Felix snaps.

When Sylvain looks up, Felix can see the edge of the cloth is stained red. Thankfully it doesn’t seem to be bleeding through, meaning Sylvain can probably wait for a few minutes without risking death.

“Don’t move,” he tells Sylvain. Carefully, he steps around the mess across their floor, heading towards the pantry, where their broom had taken residence. 

As meticulously as possible, he sweeps up the shards of glass into a pile. He’ll sweep them into a box and throw them out later, right now he has something more important to do. 

Sylvain is still sitting with his head resting against the cabinet behind him, his eyes closed against the light above him.

“Sylv?” Felix asks, crouching next to him. Cautiously, he puts a hand on his partner’s shoulder. 

“Walked into an open cupboard,” Sylvain explains without opening his eyes. He sounds tired, exhausted really, but that isn’t surprising. Between moving, his parents calling, and trying to unpack, he’s had a few stressful days. “It’s just a scratch,” he smiles reassuringly.

Felix doesn’t buy it. “It’s bleeding, let me see.”

Sylvain does, moving his hand to reveal a small, albeit still bleeding, cut. 

“Head wounds always bleed a bunch, even if they’re minor.”

Felix scowls. “How would you even know that?”

Surprisingly, Sylvain laughs. “It's common knowledge Fe,” his smile turns slightly guilty, “when I was seventeen, I also got so drunk I fell down the stairs. Woke up a few hours later covered in blood.”

“The more I learn about you as a teenager,” Felix says as he pokes at the wound, “the more I want to go back in time and knock some sense into you.” He sits back, allowing Sylvain to put the towel back against his forehead. It’ll need to be bleached, if not thrown out all together. “Hold on a second, I’m getting the first aid kit.”

“Felix I don’t-” he tries to reason, but stops when Felix glares at him.

The first aid kit was one of the first things they made sure to unpack. It’s stored under the bathroom sink, so that it’s easy to get to in the night. It doesn’t have any medication in it though, since they’re all stored either in the medicine cabinet above the sink, or in Sylvain’s night table.

Bringing it back to the kitchen, he settles on the floor.

“I’m fine Felix,” he tries to assure.

“Shut up,” it's lacking its usual bite, or any bite really. 

Sylvain rolls his eyes when Felix dabs a disinfectant wipe against the cut, but manages to hold his tongue. 

“There,” Felix tells him as he puts a bandaid on his forehead. It’s kinda stupid, but he doesn’t care. Knowing Sylvain, the damn thing would get infected if they left it. His luck is bad enough. “Better?”

Sylvain nods, but something seems off about it. After a childhood spent together and almost a year of dating, Felix knows he’s pretty good at reading his partner. But whatever it is, Sylvain doesn’t seem interested in talking.

Instead of pressing, Felix stands and holds his hand out to Sylvain, who takes it. 

They end up on the couch, Sylvain leaning against his chest. 

“So are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” Felix asks, running a hand through his boyfriend’s hair. Sylvain visibly relaxes at the touch, it's a feeling both of them enjoy. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replies, but the words are quiet, distracted even. Felix frowns. He won’t push Sylv to talk if he doesn’t want to, but it’s always a little concerning when he doesn’t. Then again, Sylvain is always a little concerning in general.

They lay in silence, soaking in the feeling of one another, until Sylvain speaks again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as if Felix is supposed to understand why.

“For the glass?” Felix tries, already knowing the answer.

“No,” he shifts, pressing his face against Felix’s collarbone. “Well, yes, but also for everything else.”

He tries to avoid the annoyed sigh that wants to escape. It isn’t Sylvain’s  _ fault _ he’s like this, but it's hard. What is he supposed to say when his boyfriend tries to apologize for his entire existence? 

“You didn't do anything wrong.”

“But-”

“Don’t,” Felix cuts him, off tightening his arms around him. He presses a kiss into his forehead. “You have nothing to apologize for, so don’t try.” He takes a deep, calming breath. “Bad day?”

Sylvain huffs out a humourless laugh. “Bad week.”

“Pain?”

Sylvain makes a noncommittal noise. 

“Sylv?”

“I’m fine.”

Felix isn’t sure he believes that. 

Sylvain has always been good at lying. His entire life, it had been one of the few constants. As a kid, he hadn’t even realized just how good he was at it. Now, after nine months of dating, he’s gotten better at it. Of course, it probably helps that Sylvain doesn’t  _ like _ lying to him. Felix has no doubt that if Sylvain really wanted to keep something a secret, he’d never find out. He pushes that thought from his mind. He doesn’t want to think about the things Sylvain could hide from him, if he wanted. Instead, Felix directs his attention back to the man laying against him. 

“No brace today?” he hasn’t worn it since they moved in, something that bothered Felix, even if he said it was just because he hadn’t needed it. After the first flare he’d seen, back when they’d started dating, Sylvain had begun wearing it most days. It’s odd to suddenly stop.

Sylvain shrugs, a movement which has him hissing in pain and tensing against Felix’s chest.

“Okay,” he says before Sylvain can object, or try to cover it up. “I’m getting it. And your painkillers while I’m at it.” He tries to shift his partner off him, only to feel a fist clinging to his shirt. “Sylvain?”

“I said I’m fine,” his voice is clearer, but tense. As if he’s speaking through clenched teeth. 

A bubble of irritation surges fourth. “Well you sure as hell don’t look like it.” He regrets it as soon as he says it, even before Sylvain sits up and  _ glares _ at him. 

“Well then maybe you should get your eyes checked,” he snaps, “or maybe wear your fucking glasses.” 

He’s goading, he’s self destructive and in pain and angry, Felix reminds himself. He doesn’t mean it, he’s lashing out. There isn’t any point in letting this continue, it’ll only end in harsh words and hurt feelings.

Closing his eyes, Felix takes a deep breath. He schools his expression into one as neutral as possible. “Sylvain,” he says, perfectly calm. “Can you tell me what’s bothering you?”

Sylvain, to his credit, immediately looks guilty. “I don’t know.” He bites his lip before sighing. He shifts slightly. It’s something he does when he’s nervous. “Felix, do you think I’m useless?”

“Where’s this coming from?” Felix asks as he tightens his grip on his partner. By the time he realizes he hasn’t actually answered the question, Sylvain has gone stiff in his arms. Upset. “Sylv, of course I don’t think you’re useless. Why would you even think that?”

“It's nothing,” Sylvain finally replies, pushing himself up. Felix doesn't miss the cringe of pain at that. “It’s stupid anyways.”

“If it’s upsetting you, it isn’t stupid.” Being a supportive partner hasn’t come naturally to Felix, not really. His first instinct is, and has always been, anger. It’s easier to snap at somebody than comfort them. Easier to tell them to knock it off and get over it. Sylvain’s shoulder, never quite without pain, is proof as to why that’s a bad plan. Not everybody responds well to criticism at their lowest. Not everybody wants logical thinking.

Empathy has been a cultivated skill. One that he spent years  _ trying _ to do after Sylvain’s accident, even before he knew what it really was. He hadn’t been very good at it until they reconnected again. Now, he’ll even go as far as to make eye contact with Sylvain for prolonged periods of time, if it's what he feels his partner needs. 

Right now, Sylvain just needs to stop pushing him out and  _ tell him _ what’s wrong, so he  _ can _ help.

“It's just...” he bites his lip. “When we were moving. Nobody let me  _ do _ anything. I just stood there, watching everybody work. It's like nobody trusts me not to fuck myself up. Like everybody knows I’m useless aside from me.”

_ Fuck. _ “Sylv that isn't what that was,” he tries to explain. Felix never thought that something like that would bother him. “It's not that we don’t trust you, it’s that we know it can be hard to estimate your limits, especially when it comes to heavy lifting. We just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Sylvain doesn’t look satisfied with the response. Felix knows why. It’s the part of him that says he’ll never be enough, that nobody will love him, that everybody will abandon him. 

“You’re okay,” he says, trying to sound soothing. “Nobody thought badly of you, Sylvain. Nobody thinks you’re useless, or unable to take care of yourself. Our friends just wanted to help. They’d probably feel terrible to know you felt this way.”  _ Not to mention that you didn’t tell anybody, but that’s not the point... yet. _

His partner just sighs, sinking back against him. “I just want to be useful,” he says. “I  _ hate _ that I can’t do anything because of my shoulder. I hate that it feels like my body betrays me constantly. I know it’s my own fault. I know I brought this-”

“It isn't your fault,” Felix cuts him off, because that is not a spiral he wants to let Sylvain go down. He knows how that conversation ends, and he really doesn't want to see his partner slip that far. ”You were a stupid teenager, yes, but that isn't on you. You needed help, but nobody bothered looking. Nobody reached out to you when you needed it, despite what were  _ obvious _ cries for help, so you did what was the only thing you thought you  _ could  _ do. Which is not your fault.”

It's a difficult balance; trying to find the space between “well you did willingly throw yourself off a bridge” and “your chronic pain isn’t something you should blame yourself for.” He still isn’t sure he quite has it yet, but he’s _ trying _ . None of this is natural.

“I love you,” he settles on when Sylvain doesn’t reply. Because what else is there to say? What can he say when his partner is grieving for the youthful body he never really got a chance to have? It’s more than depression, when it’s related to himself.

Carefully, Felix pushes Sylvain off him, and stands. “Come on,” he tells him. “We can spend a few more hours in bed. We’ll throw a heating pad on it, maybe alternate it with ice if that doesn’t help.” He thinks of the CBD balm he picked up on a whim a few days ago, maybe now would be a good time to try it.

He can’t fix everything, can’t make the pain stop, or the ghosts that haunt his partner disappear, but he can help. He can be his anchor, keeping him  _ here _ . He can’t fix it, but he can help. 


End file.
